


A Winter's Journey

by Red



Category: X-Men (Movies), X-Men: Days of Future Past (2014) - Fandom, X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon Disabled Character, Clothed Sex, Cold Weather, Kissing, M/M, Older Characters, Post-X3, Reunion Sex, Reunions, Safehouses, Snow, pre-DOFP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-21
Updated: 2015-11-21
Packaged: 2018-05-02 09:30:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5243243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Red/pseuds/Red
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Erik doesn't know why he expected the vacation house to be empty. Of <i>course</i> Charles's remaining students would see the strategic benefit of an off-the-grid property he and Charles had managed to keep secret for decades. But of all those he finds staying there, there's one person in particular Erik never expected to see again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Winter's Journey

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Unforgotten](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unforgotten/gifts).



> Thanks to mabyn, jadieladie, and significantowl for all your amazing editing work! Couldn't have done it without you guys.

By the time he makes it that far north, the first snows have already long since fallen, and the woods are freezing and utterly still. 

Trudging through the forest makes for miserable, endless work. 

No different, then, than the rest of his life. And somehow pressing on only ever seems to get more difficult, the winters only ever get colder, and if it didn’t mean he’d be admitting defeat, Erik would have just stayed put when the Sentinel program started up again full-force. 

But here he is. Walking up a mountain, looking for one of the several houses Charles left behind. It’s a far worse journey than ever it’d been before. Back then, he could have at least levitated above this hideous snow, but as yet his powers still haven’t returned to any useful degree. He’d even had to use his _bare hands_ to make snowshoes, something he could have accomplished with his powers as a mere child. As far as Erik can tell, the Sentinels haven’t even bothered to track his motions, that’s how little threat he poses, now. 

Hunched against the wind, he keeps trudging on. 

He’s not quite sure why he’s even bothering with this. Suffering through an aimless journey to an abandoned house, and for what? To bide his time? 

To pretend he’ll one day wake up with a quarter of his former power? 

Stumbling against a submerged rock, Erik catches himself. His breath comes out in ragged pants, visible in the frigid air. 

It’s the only thing he can hear. No birds, no animals, even the snowfall has ceased. As if the forest is dead. 

Erik shakes his head, and pushes onward. 

Maybe it’s just that he’s a sentimental old man, with little left other than his memories of what is now one of many forgotten vacation properties. He coughs, but doesn’t slow his pace.

He can’t even see the house properly yet, surrounded as it is by trees. But his memories of it overlay the woods. The first time he came here, it must have been the mid-eighties. To this day, he doesn’t know why he agreed to meet with Charles, why Charles had extended the invitation at all. The letter arrived one day— _come to my cabin in Maine, we’ll discuss this in person_ —and Erik didn’t even think about it, back then. He just went to Maine.

And a cabin it was certainly _not_ , he would discover, not by any stretch of the English language. There were three bathrooms and at least seven bedrooms. Every time he made the journey, he and Charles would spend nearly the entire stay in the master bedroom, arguing more often than not. 

Erik had only ever been up to the upper storey a handful of times. Usually it had been to independently verify Charles was right about the lack of surveillance. But once Erik had gone at Charles's behest, to try and catch an extremely recalcitrant raccoon Charles had let in (a memory of this place Erik would rather have fade). Charles apparently had enough houses that he couldn’t be bother making all of them _fully_ accessible. Or, perhaps Charles had simply wanted to keep this particular property secret, and had thought it ‘immoral’ to wipe the memories of an elevator installation crew. Either way, as far as Erik knows, that floor has been empty for decades. 

Which is why—when he rounds a large tree and one of the upper-storey windows comes into view—he stops in his tracks. 

Faintly, he can see a light flickering. Without his powers, it’s become more difficult to trust his senses. Maybe he’s just seeing things, or it’s a trick of the winter light. Erik stands frozen a moment, squinting at the window, wondering if someone has discovered the house before him. 

A second of inattention, Erik had learned a very long time ago, is all it takes to find yourself compromised. 

No sooner does he start taking another step forward than he’s yanked back. His breath whooshes out as he’s knocked hard into the tree behind him, as if something—or someone—has grabbed hold of him _through_ it. 

“Who are you, and what are you doing here?” 

Rather humiliating, being caught so easily, Erik thinks. Worse that he can’t immediately place the voice, a feminine one low with anger. But perhaps at least he’ll die at the hands of a fellow mutant, rather than waiting around for some human invention to take notice of him. It’d just be nice if the mutant—one of Charles’s students, no doubt—would at least have the courtesy to recognize him, first. 

“Just an old friend of Charles’s” he wheezes, trapped with enough force against the tree that it’s difficult to catch his breath, “trying to come in from the cold.” 

For a second, he’s entirely certain of two things: one, the mutant recognizes him. And two—as the mutant pulls him harder against the tree, as the bark grates harder into his back, as his powers glance uselessly against all the metal he can sense—he’s going to be killed. 

And then, abruptly, he’s let go. 

“Magneto,” the mutant says, perhaps unnecessarily, as she stalks around in front of him.

Erik brushes off his coat, trying to gather himself. He wasn’t expecting to find anyone out here, and he doubts very much he looks half the mutant Magneto once was. Still, no reason not to try to salvage what little dignity he has left. Now that he can see the mutant’s face, he can easily place the powers and voice. 

“Kitty, my dear,” he replies. She seems much older than when he last saw her, across the battlefield on Alcatraz. Then again, it has been a lifetime since then. “You certainly look well.” 

She narrows her gaze at him. “I could’ve killed you,” she points out, and he smiles down at her. 

“Well, now, why spoil the chance?” 

One of Kitty’s hands clenches into a fist, then relaxes. She does it again, then she breathes out in an irritated and visible sigh. 

“Okay. Fine. I don’t have time for this, I’m on watch. You’re here, so I guess I’m taking you up to the cabin.” 

_It’s not a cabin_ , he nearly says. Charles must have referred to it as such in his will—there’s simply no way anyone who didn’t spend their _entire_ life in a mansion would mistake this building for a cabin—but by the time he goes to speak, Kitty has turned and started stalking up the hill. 

She doesn’t look back, clearly not caring if Erik follows her or not. 

Erik waits a moment, and then starts following her tracks. She isn’t hurrying, and tired as he may be (and even if her snowshoes look a bit more structurally sound than his own) Erik’s stride is still a good deal longer than hers. Soon enough, he’s beside her again.

“Letting bygones be bygones?” he asks, never quite capable of leaving well enough alone. 

She shakes her head. “I wouldn’t say that,” she says, not looking at him. “There’s worse to worry about than you, now, that’s all.” 

He isn’t sure he’ll ever understand this, the oblivious naivety of Charles’s students. “Hasn’t there always been?” 

Kitty just laughs, as if he’d said something amusing. “Should’ve assumed you’d say that. I guess so,” she allows, glancing up at him a moment before concentrating on the path again. “But you gotta know you’ve done a lot of harm. And you know as well as me, that’s not my place to forgive.” 

Erik hums thoughtfully, not certain if he should agree or not.

The rest of their short journey, they make in silence.

\- - - -

When they reach the house, Kitty herds him into the kitchen.

She’s brusque about it, has a perfunctory air that Erik finds himself begrudgingly appreciating. True to her word, she’s professional about matters. She is on watch; therefore, she has no time for an old man. She leaves without saying anything, only deigning to pause long enough to exchange a brief and indecipherable look with someone sitting at the kitchen table. 

Because, naturally, the kitchen isn’t empty; there’s already three people there when Kitty brings him in. Now that he's here, Erik doesn’t have the slightest why he assumed the house would still be vacant when he’d set out. At least _one_ of Charles’s students would have sense enough to realize the strategic benefit of a vacation property this off-the-grid. There’s little purpose in a school, now, but Kitty seems just one of many to have already taken refuge here.

Two of the individuals at the table are just children. They pay Erik about a half-second of attention, before becoming occupied once again with their coloring. Erik can’t tell if they’re human or mutant, if they’ve had the Cure or not. 

As for the older mutant Kitty had given a look—well, he, at least, is a more straightforward case. 

“Ah, um,” the mutant starts, tail lashing nervously behind him. “Magneto, how are you?” 

Erik resists the urge to correct him. Probably best not to draw any undue attention to his current lack of powers. Pointing out that Magneto essentially died with the Cure would be nothing more than _extremely_ unproductive. If memory serves correctly about the little time he’d spent with Kurt, it had all been uncomfortably like being trapped on a jet with Azazel. Had Azazel been blue, unbearably Catholic, and possessing the secondary mutation of insufferable optimism, of course. 

Erik’s not sure _any_ conversation will be anything more than dreadful. 

He sits heavily in one of the unoccupied chairs, anyway. 

“Oh, perfectly well, as you can see,” Erik answers, waving his hands a little to call attention to his general appearance. 

Traveling so long rarely does much for one’s image. He’s already shed his heavy outer coat and boots—half under Kitty’s insistence (“house rules,” she’d grumbled, just phasing out of her own snowshoes and boots) and half out of deference for how Charles once insisted on keeping his overpriced excuse for a cabin—but the rest of his clothes leaves much to be desired. Had he _ever_ worn so much flannel? Surely not. 

For a beat, Kurt seems perplexed. Well, Erik supposes, they _are_ in hiding. There’s little time now for appearances, and perhaps everyone who finds their way here is similarly unkempt. All the same, Erik’s first plan—once he has a little time to himself—is to improve upon his sartorial choices. 

Then, just as quickly, Kurt gets up from the table. “Oh, of course, but you should eat,” he says, and he rummages through the cabinets to retrieve a bowl and a spoon. Simmering on the woodstove, there’s a large pot—Erik _had_ noticed it the minute he’d came in, but felt it prudent to bide his time until these students of Charles’s were out of his hair—and Kurt doesn’t give any room for protest, before he’s gone and ladled out an exceedingly generous portion.

 _I can serve myself_ , Erik wants to say. 

It grates his nerves, this pointless solicitude—he much prefered Kitty’s brand of hospitality—but he gets the feeling that explaining that to Kurt would be an exercise in futility.

So he lets one of Charles’s not-quite-a-student students bring him a bowl of stew. 

Erik supposes there are worse things. 

“How many are there of us here?” he asks, in lieu of complaining. 

Perching again on his chair, Kurt raises his eyebrows. “I wonder how you mean,” he says. 

Erik glares up at him. Admittedly, he’s thankful for the distraction: it is so difficult to bolt down soup with anything resembling dignity. 

“You _know_ what I mean,” he says, and Kurt hums like he has to think about it, his tail thrashing behind him. 

“Well, it’s now more complicated, wouldn’t you agree?” Kurt asks, before counting on one hand: “there are mutants, there are mutants who have the Cure, there are humans…” he closes his hand into a fist. “And the Sentinels, they hunt us all the same, right?” 

“And who, I wonder, is at fault for that?” 

Kurt gives him a disbelieving look. “You can’t blame that on everybody. Not on children, surely.”

They’re both quiet for a moment. Erik is tired, and his body is quickly realizing how long it’s been since he last ate, and this tedious conversation seems set to last all night.

“There are eighteen of us here,” Kurt awkwardly continues, when Erik keeps silent. “Humans and mutants both. Nineteen now, if you stay. And you’re welcome to, I’m sure, but maybe all the same, you should ask… ah, I probably shouldn’t say,” Kurt rambles on, inanely. Erik isn’t sure if he cares for an explanation or not, but even if he wanted to corner Kurt and figure out exactly what he’s going on about, Kurt’s started talking _again_. 

“You can stay in the room down the hall,” he finishes, before gathering the children and just—vanishing. 

The spoon clanks against the bowl. Erik frowns down at his stew again, disoriented and now _completely_ annoyed. It’s become strange again, being around others. He’d almost forgotten what it is like to be with other mutants, what it’s like to be speaking with anyone at all. He starts eating slowly, pacing himself. It’s been too long, too, since he’s had decent warm food. There’s an occasional creak on the ceiling above him, as someone walks on the upper storey. 

This house is so very different, full as it is. And yet... 

And yet, full as it is, _the room down the hall_ is empty. Eighteen people would mean the upper level is all two or three to a room, yet somehow they’ve left the master suite unoccupied? Erik _almost_ would think it intentional. That Charles’s students must intend it as some sort of punishment: tormenting Erik by giving him the room which was once Charles’s own, the very same room Erik would sleep in on those rare, stolen nights. 

Resigned, Erik finishes off the stew. More likely, the students are simply too sentimental to use a perfectly functional bedroom. Charles and he were never anything less than utterly discreet, after all. There’s no way any of these students would have known. 

It’s simply a cruel twist of fate, just one more among so very many. 

Erik stands slowly, his joints creaking in protest, and takes his time rinsing out the bowl. Exhausted though he may be, it’s not like he hasn’t become just as sentimental, in his old age. There’s a large part of him that just wants to sleep here at the table, to doze off in the uncomplicated warmth of the kitchen. 

He forces himself to walk out of the kitchen and head down the short hallway. The bedroom door is closed. He has to pause before opening it. How many times did he come here to find Charles already in bed, waiting for him? 

How often had he opened this very door, his powers on the metal nearly the moment he entered the house? 

Shaking himself, Erik reaches out to turn the doorknob. A lot has changed since then. There is little use in reminiscing now. 

The room seems recently occupied, yet more-or-less unchanged from how it looked when Charles and he spent time here. It’s colder, of course, and only faintly lit by the last of the winter sunlight filtering through the curtains, the electricity long since disconnected. 

Erik sits on the edge of the bed, unbuttoning his shirt thoughtfully. 

Charles had always so enjoyed his comforts, even when the power would inevitably cut out on them here during storms. It seems a shame to get under the covers with weeks’ worth of travel still on his clothes, with the grime of sleeping on the road clinging to his skin. The propane water heater won’t call any more attention to the house than what the students have _already_ , between the wood stove and the oil lamps and all their second-floor activity. Erik rummages through the top-most shelf of the closet to find clothes he’d left himself, long ago—still perplexingly undisturbed—and finds his way through the dark of the en suite, starting up the shower and the water heater. 

He strips, too tired to do much more than drop his clothes in an untidy heap. Still, deeply-ingrained habit forces him to kick them out of the way, into the corner. 

Ridiculous, he thinks, stepping under the streaming water. 

Charles is dead. No old foolish habit will make it otherwise. 

The water is warm, an extravagant luxury he hadn’t anticipated. Were it him alone, he wouldn’t dare do more than light one of the antique oil lamps Charles had amassed here. Still, Erik doesn’t want to linger. Wary after so long alone on the road, he washes briskly, but thoroughly. No telling when he'll next have the chance. 

The soap is different, he can’t help noting. Lucky for him, he supposes. How much time would he waste here, lost in his useless memories, were it the same rich cedar-scented soap Charles once favored? The bar in his hands is nearly a sliver, scentless and brittle and thinly-lathering. Perhaps something found on the journey here, or perhaps something one of the students made. 

Strange, how quick the world can change. How many times you can see it end, in one lifetime. 

It’s fully dark in the bedroom by the time he’s rinsed and toweled off. Erik dresses quickly in the darkness, and he’s so weary that getting under the covers seems more than effort enough. But something—some lingering disbelief, or some little burst of nostalgia—presses him to go and light the lamp on the nightstand. 

The room is empty and still. The thick down comforter is the same one he remembers, that dark plaid thing Charles forever insisted upon calling ‘rustic’, no matter how much he’d paid for it. The oak nightstand still has a few books stacked on it, hardbacks with the dust jackets missing, the way Charles had always kept his books. Whatever happened to all those dust jackets, Erik never did figure out. Did Charles simply throw them away? He picks up one of the books to inspect the spine, wondering what it’s about, wondering who it was staying here, who was reading these. Perhaps there had been some traveler. Some other lonely old mutant, just passing through. 

Or perhaps Charles had come here one last time, without him? It’s not impossible. There’s even an envelope stuck in between the pages, like one of the impromptu bookmarks Charles would always use. 

The title and author of the book are completely unfamiliar. Opening to where the last reader left off, it appears to be some sort of light fantasy novel involving—of all things—talking otters. Unfortunately, given Charles’s eclectic and at-times appalling reading habits, Erik finds himself no closer to knowing who left this behind. Still curious, he flips over the envelope to see the recipient, and almost drops the book. 

It’s a letter to Charles. 

From _him_. Here, in the open, where absolutely _anyone_ could find it. How long has it been here? How long could Charles’s students have known? While Erik can’t remember _every_ word he’s written to Charles, he could count on one hand the letters he’d sent that could be considered anything near _discreet_ , and as the door starts to creak open Erik straightens his back, prepared to confront whoever it is coming in. 

He does drop the book, then.

“Come now, it isn’t as bad as all that,” Charles says, closing the door behind him. 

Erik blinks. 

When he opens his eyes, Charles is still there. Still pushing closer in his chair, the same manual one he always used when they were here together, before, and there’s no way—

There’s simply no way. 

“You’re dead,” Erik says, fighting back the urge to react physically, to stand and keep his distance from whatever it is he’s trapped with. His mind races. Perhaps… perhaps he’s asleep. Or hallucinating. There must be a simple explanation for all of this, and Erik is not shrinking from a ghost when they _don’t exist_. Perhaps there’s another telepath amongst Charles’s students, or an illusionist. Or even another shapeshifter—Erik knows it’s not Raven: even if she weren’t also dead, and even if she’d got all her powers back, she wouldn’t bother with the pretense. Raven would just kill him on sight. 

“Erik—” the illusion starts, sounding all too like Charles. The same exasperated tone, the same familiar voice… but while Erik isn’t sure of exactly what’s going on here, he _knows_ this can’t be Charles. He’s not about to be caught the fool. 

“Charles Xavier is dead,” he repeats, keeping his voice steady. He bends to pick up the book casually, acting as if he’d meant to drop it. He replaces it neatly on the nightstand. “I saw it happen. You may as well stop whatever trick it is you’re playing.” 

“I’m not playing any tricks. I’m not even in your head,” the illusion tells him. Erik scoffs, disbelieving. That is what an illusion would say, now, isn’t it? But no sooner does Erik think those words than he hears Charles’s voice in his _mind_ : 

«Would you believe me more, if I were?» 

Erik startles again, staring at Charles. _The illusion of Charles_ , he tries to remind himself, because—as much as that _felt_ like Charles, as familiar as that brilliant, infuriating mind was, brushing against his own—there is still no way Charles could be here with him. Erik can’t think of a word to say, he’s stuck sitting there on the edge of Charles’s bed. Frozen in place, as he stares at a dead man. 

And it _looks_ so very much like Charles, too. Down to the way he rubs his eyes, as if he’s tired. Or _pretending_ he’s tired—trying to hide the fact he was tearing up, the way he used to when they were so much younger. Charles would start tearing up over anything, Erik had once thought, given half the chance. But then again, half the time, he’d manage to drag Erik right along into doing the same. 

«My darling… I don’t know I’ve ever been able to convince you of anything,» the illusion sends. Emotions are drifting through the telepathic connection, slightly dampered, like how it once felt when Charles’s emotions would outpace his powers. “But it _is_ me. All I can do is ask you to trust that.” 

Clearing his throat, Erik gives up on keeping his voice steady. “I can’t. It’s impossible.” 

“I thought so, too, when I woke up,” the illusion says, unbearably gentle. It comes in a little closer, but keeps between Erik and the door. 

He looks so _real_. Erik laughs, feeling hysterical. “When you _woke up_? From _disintegrating_?” 

It’s a memory impossible to erase. He’s re-lived it, countless times, wondering how it could have possibly happened. How everything had suddenly gone so very wrong. How he could have lost Charles, lost him so completely. How Charles could disappear, as if he’d never been there at all. 

The illusion wheels in closer, close enough now to touch. Erik is at once both hoping for and terrified of that. He draws back, crossing his arms. 

“It’s not easy to explain,” the illusion says. He seems to be keeping his hands to himself, at least. 

“I’d imagine.” 

“And you’re not making it any easier to do so. Erik, stop thinking of me as an elaborate hallucination, you’re giving me a headache. Look, _I_ can’t even make sense of how it happened. Basically my consciousness found this body—” 

“That just so happens to look exactly like you,” Erik interrupts, waving one arm at the illusion.

“Well, yes. Yes, admittedly so. Moira did remark it was unusual when she found him.” 

“Ah, yes, a body that looks precisely like Charles Xavier, conveniently in the labs of a woman who became a doctor… When, again?”

Charles ( _the illusion_ , Erik reminds himself again, to hell with this headache talk) sighs, loudly. 

“You were under the Pentagon, if I recall correctly.” 

“And whose fault was that?” Erik gripes, reflexively. Illusion or not, it’s still a raw wound, one that Charles was forever prodding. It never seemed to matter too terribly to Charles whether or not Erik was at fault, and it doesn’t seem to matter to whoever this is, either.

“Do you want me to apologize for not rescuing you, _again_? Or for this body? Erik, either way, it’s not something you can hold me responsible for,” Charles snaps. Erik frowns, because that, too, sounds very like Charles. “My consciousness found a body, what it looks like was a coincidence. I’m just lucky to be alive.” 

Erik tries to comment—how lucky is it, surviving to see a world such as this?—but Charles keeps talking before he can. 

“I know, and I _would_ agree. But as little good as it might seem to do, these days... I do have a responsibility to my students.” 

Of course. The only responsibility Charles ever owned to, hypocritical as it may have often seemed to Erik—Charles did so much for their cause, yet was just as frequently abandoning his fellow mutants as not. Now, with the Sentinels turned against humans as much as mutants, Erik supposes there’s some small benefit in Charles’s old sympathies toward humankind. Better to close ranks and fight together, for as long as they can.

“And I see you haven’t lost your fondness for hiding behind them,” is all Erik allows, though he imagines there’s little chance Charles isn’t listening in to his thoughts. “You could read me from miles away, last I was here.” 

“First you accuse me of being an illusion, and now you’re upset about _that_? That I _wasn’t_ reading your mind?” Charles asks, incredulous. “If I thought for one second you were capable of choosing a warm meal over picking a pointless fight with me—” 

“You flatter yourself, Charles.” The name comes out unbidden, and Erik doesn’t know which of them is more shocked by it. 

He glares at Charles, or the illusion of him. Obviously, if anyone here is at fault…

“Even if I’m an elaborate hallucination—which I guess can’t be ruled out, for all the bloody good you’ve been at taking care of yourself—I still…” Charles trails off, looking Erik over, before continuing mind-to-mind. 

«I’d still prefer to see you well, my friend.»

Erik isn’t sure what to say to that. Hallucination or not… Erik swallows back the first instinctive words that come to mind, and tries to focus, instead, on his irritation at being babysat by Charles’s students. 

Reading the annoyance, Charles raises an eyebrow. “Though I wonder. Maybe you’d be more comfortable _had_ I found a different body. Perhaps you’d trust me more in a slightly younger model.” 

“Please,” Erik says, shaking his head. Charles has a preposterous expression, like he’s at once insecure and yet entirely full of himself. Erik had always hated inflating that already-enormous ego, and as far as he can tell Charles is just fishing for compliments to get Erik to ignore his rightful irritation, but what choice does he have? What choice did he ever have? 

“You know how I’ve always felt about this ‘model,’ as you so romantically put it,” he continues. “Even if it didn’t look incredible, I’ve always been partial to how it drives.” 

“Hmm. Well, to be honest—I had thought I’d lost my touch,” Charles says. He smiles a little, in that way he always had when he was trying to be coy. 

Erik gives him a look. That stupid smile is nearly enough to convince Erik this is, without question, Charles. The innocent charmer act was so ridiculous, but Charles never stopped trying it, not in all the years they were together, no matter how little good it ever was against Erik. 

“What do you mean by that?” Erik asks, dreading the response. 

“Well, just that... Every time you came here before, we would be in bed together, by now.” 

And Erik’s still not _entirely_ certain he should trust his senses, but he can’t help snorting, exasperated and amused. He pats the mattress at his side. 

“I’m already in your bed. Seems to me, _you’re_ the one who needs to catch up.” 

Charles looks up at him, strangely wistful. 

“I suppose you’re right,” he says, and he wheels up alongside the bed. Erik watches carefully as he transfers, and that’s no different, either. Even the way he moves—it’s as if Charles has truly come back.

Erik can’t help reaching out right away. All he does is rest one hand on Charles’s, but he still must startle, just from touching Charles so lightly. Charles turns his hand, quickly holding on, as if he thinks Erik will run. 

“Erik—”

“It’s fine,” Erik interrupts, bringing his right hand over as well. It’s such a simple thing, he’s only holding one of Charles’s hands, but… But he’s so warm. Charles is solid. He’s real. 

Erik doesn’t know what he _thought_ would happen, if he imagined Charles would vanish, or his hand would just pass through. 

The callouses are right where he remembers, the back of his knuckles dry and a bit chapped.

Erik clears his throat. 

“Don’t you have gloves?”

Charles breathes out, a soft hitch of sound, not quite a laugh. He brings his free hand up to brush over Erik’s jaw, as if he’s trying just as hard to reassure himself Erik’s alive. 

“You’re one to talk,” he murmurs, pressing Erik to tilt his face a little, frowning as he examines him in the dim light. “You’re too old to be so careless, Erik.” 

“I seem to remember you opining the same when I first met you.” 

Charles does laugh, then, and leans in to brush his lips against Erik’s. 

It’s such a brief touch, not even long enough for Erik to react, nothing more than the barest hint of a kiss, yet… Erik’s breath hitches, and he lets go of Charles’s hand only to grip tight at his shoulders. He pulls Charles close, and kisses him back, desperately, pleadingly. The sweater Charles is wearing feels threadbare, his shoulders a little leaner, but everything else is so much the same—the smell of Charles's skin, the certainty of his kiss, the swell of his powers cresting over Erik’s mind—and suddenly, Erik is _absolutely_ sure. He’s lived so very long, and his senses have got him this far. 

How can he doubt himself, now? 

His hands roam over Charles, down his back and up again, marveling at the solid heat of his body. One palm skims over the familiar strong curve of Charles’s neck to cup the back of his head as they kiss, and Charles shivers, his own hands tightening on Erik’s waist. 

Erik moans into the kiss and pulls back, only to be consumed by the urge to kiss Charles again and again, hot and almost biting against his jaw.

“Come to bed with me,” he demands, even if he’s exhausted and not certain he’s going to be up for much, even if they’re already technically in bed. 

Charles groans, a little breathy. Just like how he would whenever they’d rent a hotel room together and he’d try—with varying degrees of success—not to make too much noise. 

Oh. Right, Erik thinks. 

Unlike every other time he’s been in this house, they’re not alone.

“Please don’t tell me there’s someone staying above us.” 

Laughing, Charles leans away to draw the comforter down. “Then I won’t say a thing,” Charles tells him, before he adjusts to pull himself up in bed. It’s just as appealing as it’s ever been to watch the play of muscles as Charles pushes himself up, even if it’s through a worn old sweater and even if Charles has lost a bit of weight, so Erik considers letting his irritation slide. 

Charles grabs the hem of the sweater, pulling it and the shirt underneath up over his head and tossing them aside. The room’s so cold, his nipples are already hard. Erik has to bite at the inside of his cheek, trying not to jump on Charles right away. 

“Believe me, I wouldn’t mind if you did,” Charles says, tugging the comforter back up. He’s left his trousers on, which Erik certainly can’t fault; it’s cold enough that he’s loathe to take off anything at all. «Then get up here already,» Charles pushes, and Erik goes to him and pulls the comforter up over them both. 

Underneath him, Charles’s body is so warm, and the comforter is pleasantly heavy on his back. Erik maps out Charles’s chest and arms and sides with his hands, wondering. If it weren’t freezing, he’d likely spend hours just staring at Charles—it’s still impossible to believe that he’d come back, that this is really his body. And though Charles seems content to let Erik explore, he’s not exactly docile. Charles buries one hand in Erik’s hair, pulling him in close to keep stealing kisses. 

«I missed you,» Charles sends, because he’s never been able to be _quiet_ for half a second. Erik skims his fingers purposefully lightly over his ribs, just to see, and Charles snorts and twists away. 

“Fine, I take it back. Arse,” he says, swatting at Erik’s hands to defend himself. Erik can’t help smiling, even if this is all rather odd. 

“Awfully convenient,” Erik muses, dodging Charles enough to get his hands higher on Charles’s chest, well beyond where Charles is ticklish. “Moira just having a body lying around that looks like you, that’s wired like you—” 

“I’m sorry if I fail to see where _ticklishness_ is ‘convenient’,” Charles grouses. “Now, weren’t we making out?” 

Erik hums, frowning at Charles’s shoulder. It’s hard to make out every last detail in the flickering light of the oil lamp. And obviously, they’ve gotten older, and some scars do fade. But he _knows_ Charles had a mark there, a deep one he gave Erik one story for when they had spectacularly angry sex in Paris and another when they reunited years after; only for the truth (that Charles had been blackout drunk when it happened and he _couldn’t_ remember) to finally come out one afternoon while they were here. 

And, now that he’s thinking of it… 

Erik concentrates on his powers. Weak as they are, he’s been able to sense metal at a fair range for a while now, even if he can’t _do_ anything with it. He runs his hands over Charles’s shoulders and down the bare skin of his low back, searching. 

But the scars aren’t there. Like Charles never had a single surgery, much less the five he’d eventually go through, repair after repair after the first stabilizing fusion. And Erik’s sure enough in his faint returning powers to know the metal isn’t there, either. The screws and rods the surgeons put in, that Charles hated to have around him at first—metal that one day even the _government_ would deem safe enough where it stood, letting Charles visit Erik even in the strictest of security—it’s gone. 

It was never there. 

“Charles...” he starts, wary. 

“I don’t know,” Charles admits. “All I know is that I woke up, and—the pain is a bit better, and one certainly can’t complain about that. But everything else…” 

Charles reaches back for one of Erik’s hands, dragging it down. Beneath the fabric of his trousers, Charles’s thigh feels the same as it did the last time they were together, the muscles unresponsive under Erik’s touch. 

“Believe me, Erik. I’ve considered the possibilities. Seeing this world, the way it is now… I wouldn’t rule it out, what you’re thinking. Maybe this body was designed to—to play some role in all this. Maybe coming back, I ruined some _project_. Erik, I don’t _know_ ,” Charles says, the words coming out pressured, like he’s been holding them back for ages. 

And Erik doesn’t know, either. Could be this Charles still isn’t really _his_ Charles, it could still be just a—a reconstruction, something made in some lab to lure Erik into a false sense of security. But if it is—

Well, if it is, there’s certainly worse ways to go. 

“It doesn’t matter,” he tells Charles, running his hand firmly up Charles’s hip, lingering on the slope of his waist, smiling as Charles’s breath starts to quicken again. He’d always been so sensitive just there, that invisible line below which his nerves go dormant. “You’re here with me now. That’s all I care about.” 

He doesn’t think Charles believes him, at first. He’s not sure if he quite believes himself. But in the moment, it _feels_ true enough. He leans in to start kissing over the pale, unmarked skin of Charles’s shoulder. Charles sighs, wrapping his arms around Erik’s back, just holding on. 

For a long while, it’s all they do. Charles rubs at Erik’s shoulders, his motions slow and firm, more soothing than arousing as Erik kisses over Charles’s neck, up behind his ear. Erik is so exhausted that he’s almost nervous he won’t even be able to _get_ aroused. But they’re certainly old enough by now to know there’s nothing worse for sex than stressing out about whether or not you’re about to enjoy yourself. So he doesn’t think about it, he just lets Charles unwind the knots in his back. Letting himself relax, he savors the smell of Charles’s skin, the soft noises he makes whenever Erik nuzzles against his ear. 

On his end, Charles seems to be having no trouble whatsoever getting into things. His chest rises and falls, his breath getting more and more ragged as Erik caresses back and forth, thumbing at one nipple and then the other in turn. Unraveling Charles with lips and teeth and tongue—it’s a power like nothing else on earth. Erik keeps edging Charles slowly further, only brushing his lips against Charles’s ears every so often, just enough to frustrate. 

There’s only so long that Charles will put up with that. Even if it’s demonstrably evident Charles is enjoying what Erik is doing—his hands clench rougher at Erik’s shoulders, he keeps tilting his chin to give Erik more space, to try and get Erik to give a bit more attention to the skin under his jaw or just behind his ear. He keeps pushing his chest against Erik’s hand, trying to get _more_ when Erik refuses to do anything but skim his hand back and forth.

Erik still doesn’t give in, not for several more minutes. He could do this all night, he thinks, scoring his teeth gently against Charles’s neck. He could do this forever. 

«Yes, I do recall your legendary prowess,» Charles projects, his thoughts lit up with impatience. He brings one hand up to cup the back of Erik’s head, and presses at him, trying to get Erik to focus. «Now, if you could _please_ stop being such a damned tease—»

Erik smirks, and considers for a half-second holding out a bit longer. But Charles is broadcasting desire and annoyance so loudly, Erik wonders how the students aren’t overhearing _already_ , and so he gives in with enthusiasm. Pressing his tongue once up the curve of Charles’s ear, he can feel Charles’s arousal surge in his mind, just a twinge of _please, darling_ left in Charles’s thoughts. Erik can't imagine denying him anything—not now—and he takes Charles’s earlobe between his lips. 

From here, Charles has only ever been able to hold out for the briefest of times. Erik flicks his tongue back and forth, sucking and nipping lightly now and then as Charles grips him tight. 

“Oh god,” Charles groans, his breath rasping as Erik sucks harder and harder. “Oh _god_ ,” he sobs as Erik drags his teeth on his earlobe as he pulls off, only to run the tip of his tongue up under the outer curve, darting into the places that always drove Charles mad. He’d looked up the terms, once, wanting to give words to what they did so often together—wanting to scandalize Charles a little in return, writing about something that got him so bothered—but it was all so distressingly clinical. 

He never found the words he wanted, he never got to write Charles a letter quite the way he wanted. But maybe it was better that way. He flicks his tongue hard, again, just there, and back— _lower crus of the antihelix_ , _tragus_ —and again. Maybe it’s better like this. The language of their bodies, of what they do and are together, as something unique and beyond description. A private experience that defies words, that can only be recreated like this, here together—

“Erik, _Erik_ ,” Charles pleads, scratching desperately at Erik’s shoulders, his back arching. Erik sucks hard once more at the lobe, pinches lightly at Charles’s chest—and Charles is done. Still trying so very hard to be quiet, he yanks his hands off of Erik, covering his mouth as he writhes. 

Erik huffs a laugh, the air gusting over Charles’s spit-slick ear and earning him a muffled yelp of protest. As if the inevitable bite marks on Charles’s ear won’t just give them away, Erik thinks, as he shifts to rest his head on Charles’s chest, to listen to the racing beat of Charles’s heart. 

“Mmm,” Charles murmurs after a while. It takes Charles a long time to work up the coordination to say _that_ much, or to even move his hands from where he had them clamped over his own mouth. He reaches down to stroke Erik’s head, endearingly clumsy in his lassitude. 

Erik turns his face slightly, just enough to brush his lips against Charles’s skin. It feels like he won’t ever be able to stop touching Charles, now that he’s started—like there’s nothing he needs more than this, just being able to have Charles, beautiful and powerful and _real_ in his arms.

“Mmmmmm,” Charles hums again, extending it, clearly luxuriating in Erik’s emotions, soaking up his own post-coital high. “You know,” he starts, only to trail off again. 

Erik rolls his eyes, since it’s not as if Charles can see him doing so. All he can do is hope Charles has _completely_ lost his train of thought, since he truly doubts Charles’s after-orgasm musings have become any less annoying with time. 

Charles flicks at his ear. “Well, now you’ve ruined the moment. I was going to say—you know, I sometimes wished I could share all those letters of yours, if only to prove to the world what a sentimental darling the great Magneto is, at heart.” 

Erik turns to prop his head up, looking down at Charles with a serious expression. “Then I’m glad I ruined the moment,” he deadpans, and Charles rolls his eyes. 

“Still. _I_ know you for the romantic fool you are,” Charles claims. He reaches down, resting his hand as low as he can reach on Erik’s back. “Now, maybe you could scoot up a little. You want me to—?” 

Charles wiggles the fingers of his free hand in a motion that could only be interpreted as “get you off” if one had decades of practice interpreting Charles. 

Erik shrugs. “It’s not necessary,” he says. It’s not as if he’s _unaffected_. Having sex with Charles is nothing if not inspiring, even if his body is aching and tired. By now he’s half-hard, but with no particular drive to go either way with it. 

Charles tilts his head at him, considering. “‘Not necessary’ as in, ‘I’m good and absolutely don’t want a go?’ Or as in, ‘I’m good and a go _might_ be nice, but I’m tired and not sure anything will come of it, so I don’t want to put any effort into this?’” 

“It’s like you’re a mindreader,” Erik says, shifting higher up in bed so Charles can do as he pleases. 

“Hey, now. I presented two options. No telling how you truly feel about it, until you say.” 

“I _wonder_ ,” Erik grumbles. 

Charles keeps his hand innocently on Erik’s back. 

“A ‘go’ would be fine. But I _am_ tired, so you had better be good.” 

Charles grins, obviously delighted. “You know I’m _exceptional_ ,” he says, and his hands start wandering then. One skims down, his fingers brushing lightly at the bit of skin exposed by Erik’s rucked-up shirt, right along the waist of his flannel pyjama bottoms. 

With the other—Charles holds their eye contact, something in his expression daring Erik to look away. Erik’s helpless before that, and only more so when Charles brings his fingers up to his lips, already red and shiny from kissing… 

«Because I know how good it is, just _trying_ », he thinks, as he starts downright _fellating_ his own hand. 

This isn’t a new trick, not at all. But it is a _good_ one, and Erik stares, blushing a little as he watches Charles thrust his own fingers in and out. He’s always been distressingly adept at multi-tasking—when it comes to sex, anyway—so Erik isn’t too shocked when he feels that other hand shove down his boxers. 

Charles doesn’t seem to be interested in whether or not Erik has an erection. He’s not acting terribly interested in much more than Erik’s flat old—

«Hey, no disparaging remarks. This arse is one of your few redeeming features, I’ll have you know,» Charles thinks, pinching hard enough to make Erik jolt. Just as quick, Charles’s fingers smooth over the skin. And at the same time, Charles decides to attempt deepthroating the first three fingers of his right hand, so Erik decides he isn’t all that put out. 

It’s nice, what Charles is doing with his left hand. Teasing up and down the cleft of Erik’s ass, holding pressure now and then just behind Erik’s balls, lightly circling his hole but never trying for anything more... It’s good. It’s _incredible_. And the visuals… 

Well. Once he gets a little sleep—and after breakfast, granting that it’s quiet enough and that the Sentinels haven’t found them, and that students aren’t _anywhere near_ downstairs—Erik is sure he’ll enjoy replaying them while jerking off. 

For now, though, his cock seems to be holding steady at half-mast. And while Erik’s enjoying himself plenty, he’s fallen asleep enough times on Charles to know it’s not exactly welcomed behavior. 

«Charles?» he pushes back, carefully. He’s a bit rusty with projection, and nothing gives Charles a headache quite like telepathic shouting. 

«?» Charles thinks at first, followed quickly by an absent-minded «oh, yes, that’s perfect dear,» clearly in response to Erik’s volume concerns. 

«You really do only ever read so much,» Erik thinks, fondly. Reaching out for Charles’s right wrist, he holds him gently. «It’s enough. I’m good here, Charles.»

Charles withdraws his fingers. They’re slick with spit, now, and his lips all the brighter. He smiles up at Erik, quick and disarming. “I’m sure you are,” he says, his voice rough, husky with the abuse he’s given his own throat. «But—if you like, there’s one more thing I could—» he projects, along with a few half-formed impressions of thoughts: _I’ll be quick_ and _you liked it before_ and _you’ll sleep so much better my love_. 

If it’s something they’ve done before, that’s a long list—narrowed only by it being something quick that requires a minimum of effort on Erik’s part—but Erik shrugs. “If you insist,” he says. 

Charles grins, and reaches his right hand between them. “Give me three minutes,” Charles says, and that’s _absurdly_ optimistic, even for someone with Charles’s particular talent set. 

It’s still about as long as Erik’s willing to go before passing out, so he lets Charles reach down, anticipating an abbreviated (but no doubt enthusiastic) handjob. Only Charles reaches back further, pressing at him a little with the hand still on Erik’s ass to urge him to get further up on the bed, and soon enough it’s clear what Charles is intending. 

His fingers trace firmly around Erik’s hole, spreading the spit around. It’s not much in the way of lube, and it’s been a very, very long time since Erik’s been penetrated. Charles only presses in one finger, and Erik sucks in a breath, struggling against the urge to clench up. 

“Shh, there you are,” Charles purrs, for all the world the same cocksure lover he’s always been, from the night he first talked Erik into bed. “Relax, I’ve got you.” 

Erik sighs, a long exhalation. He’s not sure if Charles isn’t using his powers, just a little: just enough for Erik to be almost overcome with lassitude, his muscles easing. Charles works in deeper, enough to find what he’s after, and crooks his finger forward. 

“You know I always thought this felt _bizarre_ ,” Erik mutters as he relaxes into it, anyway. 

Charles hums, an absent noise like he’s not listening to a word Erik says. Erik grumbles, and Charles keeps up the light staccato of pressure, tapping again and again, and Erik can feel the front of his boxers dragging wet against the head of his cock as he starts leaking precome in response, and _fuck this is a long three minutes_ , he thinks desperately, but soon enough, it’s over.

Not even entirely hard yet, he clenches around Charles, his balls tightening as he comes, his cock emptying in a long, endless spurt. He groans, leaning his head against Charles’s shoulder, letting it happen. This is never quite like a regular orgasm, it’s more a strange automatic response—Charles working his prostate until, inevitably, Erik spills into his boxers. Sometimes, it wouldn’t be much when Charles would do this, before. And just as often as not, it’d feel more weird than it did pleasurable. 

But right now… Erik yawns, and shivers. Charles circles his finger a little longer, until Erik shakes his head, projecting «really quite finished now, thanks». 

Now, he feels light, almost boneless. Like that was something he needed. It must have been some time, he thinks drowsily, since he last came—he does some quick mental math and comes up with a number that’s so astronomically large it _must_ be wrong—to have come so much.

And it is—he sits up, dislodging Charles carelessly as he realizes how _disgusting_ his boxers have become—rather a mess. He winces, stumbling a little as he tries to get up from straddling Charles. 

“Ugh,” he says, pointedly.

“And you just got all cleaned up. I _am_ sorry.” Charles is, clearly, not even vaguely apologetic. 

“It’s fine,” Erik grumbles. He shoves down the pyjama pants and manages to get his boxers back off without getting come everywhere or throwing his back out, so even if it’s not particularly graceful he’s going to count it as a win. He bunches the boxers up and wipes himself off, before throwing them aside and getting his pyjamas back up. “I would have been fine _without_ that party trick of yours, too, but I suppose while we’re burning the rest of my clothes—” 

“Pshh. You love _all_ my party tricks. And while it may be the end of the world, we’ve still got plenty of hot water. It’ll come out in the wash, my dear,” Charles says, grabbing at Erik to get him where he wants him, cuddled up close. “Though… Perhaps not in the _communal_ laundry.”

“Hmph. _Perhaps_ not.” Despite himself, Erik still can’t help from smiling a little at Charles’s awful sense of humor, though he turns away to hide it. 

Turned away, he’s momentarily distracted by the flickering of the lamp. Sensing out the metal instinctively—it’d take so little manipulation to steady the wick, could he only _focus_ —Erik realizes, suddenly, that he hasn’t told Charles about his powers. He imagines Charles has read it in him already, but he wonders. 

Charles does so enjoy overlooking the obvious. 

“And perhaps,” he says, raising one of his hands, “I won’t be entirely useless to you.” 

His powers have been improving, but only by such minuscule degrees. Even now, it’s a tremendous effort to reach out for the oil lamp, to levitate it by the metal that surrounds the wicking and not disturb the glass or flame. It’s actually more than he’s managed in weeks—but then, Charles has never been anything less than inspiring. 

Letting it hover, he looks back at Charles, who is staring at him incredulously. 

It’s not quite the reaction Erik expected. It’s as if all the levity—all the joy he’d just felt, seeping over from Charles’s mind—is air being sucked from the room. 

“There have been others. Surely,” Erik says, much of his concentration still swept up in keeping the lamp aloft. It’s been so different, relearning his powers. All along, he’d thought Charles would be pleased—it’s been flat-out impossible to use his rage, the sheer hopelessness of their situation has burnt out most of that—but instead, Charles looks shocked. He looks _dismayed_.

Charles shakes his head. “A few, yes,” he admits. “I shouldn’t have been surprised, that you’d be one of the outliers.” 

It seems as if he’s more to say, so Erik remains silent. The fact that the “cure” remains permanent to so many—it’d be more disturbing, Erik supposes, if the Sentinels hadn’t returned so soon after. 

“It takes time. And proper nutrition and sleep,” Charles adds, sharply. “But if you need refuge, until then—”

“I wasn’t aware it was an either-or venture,” he interrupts, settling the lamp back on the table. 

He can tell Charles is tracking it, the slight unsteadiness of the motion, how the bottom clinks slightly as it lands. Erik wonders if he’s sensed how much exertion it took, for so absurdly little. 

Erik watches his face, evenly, waiting for Charles to meet his gaze. “My powers or you?” he asks, quietly. “Is that it?” 

“Of course not,” Charles says. His tone is still muted and contemplative. He’s still wondering how long Erik will stay, once his powers are truly back.

Erik loathes having to spell anything out directly. Much less this, much less to _Charles_. But—helmet or no—it was decades that he pushed Charles from his mind. 

It’s probably fair, that Charles is sometimes unwilling to look for himself. 

Slowly, Erik lets his hand fall to rest again on Charles’s upper arm. It still is jarring to feel the solidity of Charles’s form. Despite everything, he can’t stop expecting his hand to just pass through, for Charles to be an elaborate trick of his mind. 

“I lost you once,” he says, brushing his hand up and down, marveling in the simple warmth of Charles’s body. He can’t keep looking at Charles, he has to look away. “Forgive an old man his foolishness, but I’d beg you, if need be. I can’t lose you again. Let me stay, Charles.” 

He breathes out, consciously loosening his fingers from where they’d tightened around Charles’s bicep. 

He tries not to look at Charles, who is still unnervingly silent. 

“Please,” he forces himself to continue. Damn his dignity, to hell with the fact he’s going to have to babysit seventeen children and Charles besides… “Please, Charles. Let me stay.”

“Oh, Erik,” Charles says. He sounds so sad, Erik can’t bear to face him. But Charles reaches up to put one hand against his jaw, and forces their gazes to meet. “Of course,” is all he says. 

His expression is painfully open, and Erik imagines he must look much the same. Suddenly, it's so reminiscent of when they were young men together, of when Charles would look at Erik just like this and open to his thoughts, and before Erik can second-guess himself he presses forward a projected invitation. 

Charles is completely in his mind in a heartbeat. And it’s everything, a totality of consciousness that Erik could never remember, not accurately; the pulse of power humbling and beyond comprehension. 

«I’ve never wanted anything more,» Erik hears. He nearly laughs. 

«Yes, even when I hated you. Hell, especially when I hated you. Erik—»

And he lets Charles pull him down into a kiss. It’s easier to focus on than this, the bittersweet affection in Charles’s mind, the wordless half-formed thought they both share: _whatever time we have, I’ll take it._


End file.
